OUR FACES ARE lies and our necks are the truth,” said Nora Ephron. “You have to cut open a redwood tree to see how old it is, but you wouldn’t if it had a neck.” A keen observation, for sure, but it omits the neck’s constant and equally damning companion: the chest. Even more so than the neck, the crepe-y and cross-hatched patina of a long-abused décolleté betrays the years – and often adds extra – of a women whose has otherwise artfully lasered into oblivion the wrinkles and age spots by which she’s judged from the jawline up.

LIKE MOST WOMEN, I have a vivid memory of my first attempt at wrangling a tampon. After twenty minutes of poking my vaginal walls with what felt like a weapon made of only sharp edges, I quit. I didn’t quiz friends or – god forbid – my mum for tips. Instead, I failed privately and that was the end of tampons and me for a long while.

Twenty years on, applicators have become much smoother for the 70 per cent of Western women who use them as their primary period product, and occasionally I’ll still use one. But regular tampons are not my go-to product anymore.

Mercifully, we ladies with periods are no longer burdened with a monthly Sophie’s Choice of pad vs. tampon. In fact, our modern period wonderland has reintroduced incredible alternatives, including the exotic sea sponge tampon, which, as far as I can tell, is the only one made from a dead sea animal.

Tales of cost savings, comfort and lack of waste drew me to these at a time when my go-to menstrual cup wasn’t fitting very well and I sought a new reusable solution.

[I'm doing some blog house cleaning and was inspired to re-post this since I went red again a few months ago.]

A while back I posted a teaser about being a "self-inflicted" red head, but I never posted my observations... Oops.

Now my hair hovers somewhere between honey blonde and traffic-cone orange (not as ugly as it sounds, swear), so I still consider myself part of the ginger camp, albeit one that is perilously close to being blonde again.

A big part of me wants to go back to traffic-stopping red, Rita Hayworth red... or Franka Potente in Run Lola Run red (orange... whatever). I knew I was ready to commit to the the color. My dad's a redhead, as are several of his siblings. So was his mother. So are my mom's sister and several of my cousins (the result of my red-headed maternal aunt and red-headed paternal uncle mating. No, it's not incest, but thanks for asking). I'd been surrounded by redheads with near identical genetic makeup to me my whole life. It was like spending years looking in a mirror, if my reflection had had red hair.

My personal observations on being red are evergreen (mwa-mwa).

First...

1. Being a red head is like Marmite – many people either love it or they hate it. Be prepared to meet both types. Few are opinion-less on the matter, which makes sense because it's so rare. Just 1-2% (or so) of the world's population is redheaded. This is a 1% I am proud to be an part of, albeit artificially. No matter. I happily pay to swell their ranks.

2. Even though you’re an adult, a certain type of man(boy) still thinks it’s funny to ask you if *all* your hair is red, ignoring your mousy eyebrows or even your mismatched roots. You'll get this sort of comment, it seems, mainly in America, where men have the collective flirting IQ of a puddle that's gone on a "seduction science" course hosted by someone evolution should have already taken care of as a favor to the human race. We get negging, or whatever undermining activity it is that you're attempting, dudes. You'll never find out if the curtains match the carpet. Ever.

3. On the other end of the male spectrum, you'll quickly become acquainted with the gingerphile. I don't know that he's quite as offensive as the glut of racial fetishists out there (you know the type... the one who only dates Asian girls like 85% of the tech dudes in San Francisco. My heart goes out to you, ladies of Asian decent), but he still mostly sees you for your hair color, much like Amy Schumer and her hairomance in The Perm. Usually harmless but annoying, like a man-squito drawn to the light that is your red hair. They come in all ages, shapes and sizes and don't seem bothered by things like your wedding band. They do not break eye contact. Sadly, you can’t turn off your hair – or zap him – so he'll be buzzing around you all night. Be forewarned.

4. Red hair is having a moment thanks to follicular endorsement from Christina Hendricks (even if she did go strawberry blonde recently), Florence Welsh and Rihanna. Hipsters. Love. It. And let's not forget the originally red-headed hottie Mary Magdalene. Or Titan's beauties, or name-taker and ass-kicker Elizabeth I.

5. Red hair means you'll get lots of comments – good, bad and weird – like an online community without a manager. You’ll hear cries of ‘Hey, red’ and "Gingers have no souls!" yelled from cars passing by. Strangers almost accusatorily ask you ‘is that real’? Which leads me to the next point…

6. Blonde hair and a tan hide a multitude of beauty sins, whether committed by errant genes or your bad habits. Plus, it's easier to blend into the herd with those two attributes. But maybe there's something to be said for standing out. Emma Stone? Famous after going red. Same with Lucille Ball, Hendricks and Hayworth and the photos that made Marilyn Monroe famous featured her natural (red) hair and a lot of red velvet. Red heads don’t have the luxury of hiding behind the lovely, warm mask of tan and blonde that somehow put every other feature into soft focus, like a lens smeared with Vaseline. Frankly, I'm a little jealous. (If I had the patience and budget (even bigger than simply going red) to do it right, I'd probably be an enviable color of caramel year round, head to toe). If you go red, get ready to experience a higher level of scrutiny, even from science.

7. That said, if you’re faux red and have skin that tans, you’ll really freak out the peanut gallery. Everyone thinks that if you have red hair you must have pale skin. Nope. Go Balkan-chic and rock the red and tan.

8. People blame your red hair for all sorts of things. Stand up for yourself in a recent meeting? They’ll say it’s because of your fiery temperament, of course caused by your red hair, even if IT'S NOT EVEN REAL. Although maybe they're a little bit right... there seems to be some scientific evidence that redheads have higher pain thresholds, among other things, so it could be that red heads do share some traits aside from hair color.

9. You start to see red heads everywhere when you never noticed them before. You exchange a knowing nod, like members of a secret society, similar to how I imagine men with mustaches must do, quietly acknowledging fellow Magnum PI lookalikes with a quick lock of the eyes and near-imperceptible head tilt.

10. Dying hair red takes dogged dedication because it fades quicker than all other colors and costs $$$$$$$$$ and time (and that equals more $$$$$) to keep up. Something about the color molecules being to big to stay in the hair cuticle? I dunno. What I do know is that I go to the salon every four weeks and spend at minimum two hours there. That's three full workdays a year sat in a salon chair flicking through old magazines learning about who dared bare their cellulite at the beach to achieve my desired level of orange.

11. Box dye for red hair really and truly does not work. It lifts your base colour too much and doesn't deposit enough red, leaving you, almost without fail, a brassy orange. If you want to DIY, go to a beauty supply store and buy the professional stuff (the depositing color and the developer/lifter) after spending time reading up on how to do it.

“But I think the first real change in women’s body image came when JLo turned it butt-style. That was the first time that having a large-scale situation in the back was part of mainstream American beauty. Girls wanted butts now. Men were free to admit that they had always enjoyed them. And then, what felt like moments later, boom -- Beyoncé brought the leg meat. A back porch and thick, muscular legs were now widely admired. And from that day forward, women embraced their diversity and realized that all shapes and sizes are beautiful. Ah ha ha. No. I’m totally messing with you. All Beyoncé and JLo have done is add to the laundry list of attributes women must have to qualify as beautiful. Now every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes.”

I have no idea how good the actual products in this range are... if the mascara flakes or stays put, if the eye pencils are hard or creamy, whatever.

What I do know is that this range is gorgeous. It has a slightly messy chic look that's hard enough to capture with clothes and fashion and nearly impossible to do with beauty products without looking tatty.

The mix of white, lucite, serif and cursive fonts with suitably smeary (and unique) shots of the product is cool. I'm a big fan of real photography on packaging when it's done right... like it is here. & Other Stories has made a mid-range, achingly hip beauty brand that, perhaps, Topshop makeup wanted to be? As much as I do like Topshop, its makeup range is sort of missing the coveted edginess I see here. It feels a bit like Benefit's slightly less twee older sister.

This range doesn't. Probably because it's been designed by teams in Paris and Stockholm. Now that I think of it, it does feel very French, doesn't it?

& Other Stories is a subsidiary of H&M, so not some indie cool company, but still pretty cool, mainstream brand or not. They also sell other brands that you might have seen in so-hip-it-hurts places like Colette... Uslu et al.

Beauty is just one of the categories of merchandise made and sold by & Other Stories.

Eerie yet so so brilliant at the same time. This series is a fantastically droll take on what comes after the happily ever after... mostly, it seems, hot boxing farts under the duvet without announcing it first to catch your spouse unawares.

Check out the entire series of Disney Princesses in the 'after' versions of their lives here.

The photographer's work is slightly reminiscent of Greg Crewdson (for you art nerds out there), don't you think?

Have you heard of them? I hope so. If not, click through now and shop (it's no longer invitation only). I own an embarrassing number of items by them... sandals, bags, tees, sweaters, button-down shirts.

Don't tell my husband.

Actually, he's already noticed.

He resignedly refers to my personal style as 'Swedish minimal' (which, by the way, is redundant. Duh.) or something like that. I'm doubly minimal -- mininimal... doubinimal. I keep it simple.

My shoes are black or brown. I buy multiples of the same item if it looks good -- the black jeans, oxford shirts, ballet flats, matte red lipstick... all have siblings. My only 'purse' is Clare Vivier's La Tropezienne in brown. I said absolutely not to an engagement ring as it would clutter my simple gold wedding band. Can't have that. No clutter, domestic or sartorially speaking, thankyouverymuch.

It is exactly what I like... clean lines, good fit, high-quality fabrics and construction, a pleasantly tame color palette and tightly edited collection of SKUs. And (as as not to skim over their USP entirely) they are affordable because their entire brand ethos hinges on the concept of transparency in retail. They sell direct to you, their margins are (probably) smaller and no outside retailers need to take a cut.

Vince and Equipment (also brands I like/have bought) must be gently quaking in their (much dearer) boots.

The San Francisco-based Everlane comes to mind now because I had the good fortune to attend a pretty intimate dinner at Everlane HQ last Thursday, with the whole in-house team and 24 other random souls (like me).

I felt a bit like a geek wearing the t-shirt of a band s/he's about to go see live in concert to, you know, the concert. But I did anyway, and, as it turns out, so did everyone else -- including the Everlane staff. The band was wearing its own t-shirt! Sweet relief.

So back to the dinner party...

It was to celebrate Everlane's moving into a new (fantastic) space, and, I think, the brand's general awesomeness. The space is all white and window panes, lofty ceilings, soft natural light and painted concrete floors.

As dinner parties go, it was a success, probably because we, the invitees, were not granted a plus one to the event, thereby forcing us to -- gasp! -- mingle with one and other. Can you imagine? Not talking to the people with whom you arrived.

It was thrilling.

It was like the '90s, but way more stylish...

Frankly, that's not unlike how I am now thanks, in part, to Everlane -- like the '90s but a shade more stylish.

All in all, though, looking at it now, I think I waded through my personal dark ages okay in spite of bowl cuts, braces, college weight gain, acne, insecurity, awkward young-person fumbling and sex, more acne, disastrous highlights, illogical job moves and career stagnation, blah blah blah. I'm not winning any awards, but I've come through with my health, a career(ish), a mate, a dog...

I salvaged at least 40% of my eyebrows from the '90s. That alone makes me feel like I'm winning.

I do wish someone had given me some gentle guidance though. I'm pretty sure the most I learned at home was wipe from front to back. If that.

Like, say:

On style:

No one wakes up looking amazing. Except for Ryan Lochte and Kate Moss. Remember those gorgeous Italian exchange students in high school? They looked so casually amazing because they knew how to dress, talk, walk, do their hair/makeup, eat, etc. They didn't just put in a scrunchie and throw on a sweatshirt. The Italian exchange students gave me the stink eye (despite my delusions of grandeur) because of my bedraggled appearance. My mom might have told me that I was beautiful just the way I was, but she'd have said that if I looked like Sloth from Goonies. The take away? Know your source. Those Italian exchange students were right and mom is just nice and blinded by maternal love.

Just because the clothes in the department store don't fit properly does not mean there's something wrong with the shape of your body. It's because the clothes are all cut from one generic pattern. You don't have a generic-shaped body. One day you'll have enough money to buy the good sh*t anyway so don't sweat it.

You'll never believe it, but those Hammer pants (or Harem pants as the fash pack call them) you own and live in in 5th grade totally come back into style twenty years later.

Buy clothes in solid colors instead of trendy patterns (well, when you're the one finally doing the shopping and not mom) and you'll keep them and use them for longer. That batik-motif from the early 1990s you worn on a pair of overalls to match is no bueno. So Blossom.

Don't cut off your hair! You get bobbed like 5 times before the last time -- finally (hopefully) -- at 27. You always let the stylist convince you that your hair is the perfect texture for it. (It is not.) And every time you cry... and end up getting hit on by girls because you look like the butch half of a lesbian couple missing her other (more feminine) half (nothing but love for my lesbian friends but I am not and my hair, if cut right, can sends out mixed sexual messages).

You will feel uncomfortable if you expose your legs or your arms/decolletage at the same time in any situation but poolside.

Never ever wear knee-high boots and bare legs. EVER. So common in college and feels horrid. Looks even worse. Learn to love tights.

The only upside to still having acne when you've started to get wrinkles is that it'll make you look more youthful. Personally, I just don't want acne anymore... the dark side to looking youthful is that you also look less professional.

Have more confidence by simply thinking better things about yourself. Punch the a**hole in your in head in the face and get on with it.

If you wear anything that stands out, some people will sneer with contempt “why are you wearing that”? (Because I want to.) People feel threatened if you're not wearing their uniform of choice (SO often it's the boot-cut jeans/Northface polar fleece brigade). Ignore them too. They are like the a**hole in your head.

It's almost easier to make an effort than not. It really is just as easy to put on a dress as it is to pull on a pair of jeans. Ballet flats vs. trainers. Whatever. In the words of modern-day sartorial sage Kimora Lee Simons, "always dress like you're going to see your worst enemy".

Whether you like it or not, you're judged on your looks. Like all the time. Life is easier for pretty people. Science proves it.

Don't spend loads of cash on fast fashion. It's is the pits. You always look that tiny bit ratty after one wash cycle and it's ruining the earth. Ever time you wash a synthetic shirt, a fish dies... maybe not entirely true but it's close.

Never wear long acrylic nails unless you're on the cast of Mob Wives. Then it's probably a requirement written into your filming contract.

There is nothing that says you have to gain the Freshman 15 when you go to college. Maybe don't eat that box of Pop Tarts as an APPETIZER before the all-you-can-eat dining hall buffet dinner and, you know, see what happens, mkay? Beyond thankful that social media was a few years away from being around then. I graduated college with a fucking mullet and a bloated face that would have looked at home on a corpse found floating face down in a river.

On to bullies...

The older girls in high school will be mean, especially when 'their' boys talk to you. Ignore them, But be prepared to rumble because they probably won't leave you alone until the get a reaction out of you. Lauren Smith and Becky Davis, you were assholes then and probably still are now. I hope Karma's worked its magic on you two.

That one time in 8th grade when you're mean to that one girl (the first and last time you'll do such a thing (you were at the mercy of a bigger bully bullying you to do it. My deepest apologies, Christina)), DON'T DO IT. You momentarily became one of them. Never again, my friend, never again. Most of us remember if/when we've been less-than nice to someone, unless your name is Mitt.

People don't stop bullying as they get older... they just change their methods. They go underground. Sh*t gets real.

Give a wide berth to people who are toxic/needy/narcissistic/who lie/do drugs (except for the pot smokers, who are a delightful bunch)... Just cut and run.

Not everyone will like you and it doesn't matter. Seriously, who wants everyone to like them anyway? Most people are awful. Do you want awful people to like you?

The same people who always ask you "why you're dressed like that" when you've ditched the jeans-polar fleece uniform are bullies too. Punch them... in your mind. Clearly you can't go around punching everyone.

Men will feel entitled to your time, your space, your attention, your looks... all of it. Don't allow it if you don't like it. Hard to do at first, but you'll get used to it with practice. And if you possess a vagina, you will likely have loads of practice. If some random taps you on the shoulder to interrupt while you're clearly trying to avoid human interaction by, say, reading a book or wearing ear buds at a bar/on the train/on the beach/at a cafe (and it is ALWAYS a man under the pretext of wanting to know what you're reading. My lifetime of data points confirms that zero women do this to other women) because, hey, he wants your attention and hasn't learned that he's not entitled to automatically, don't indulge the man. It goes against everything women are taught (about being polite, about how we relate to dudes, etc.), but it's your time and space and attention and looks, not his to command as he sees fit, even if he acts like it is. Some guys will get nasty, some won't. Some will play the "geez, I was just trying to be nice/talk/insert thing here that you supposedly misinterpreted" card. Bullshit, all of it.

I shouldn't really be in the business of doling out detailed skincare advice unless it pertains to hyper-sensitive, papule-prone, easily flushed, sometimes-dull-sometimes-oily fair skin with warm undertones and mild rosacea. That would be the only complexion of which I have a profound knowledge as I've been plagued by it from the age of 14.

There are others with a far deeper and more clinical expertise of skin and its myriad issues than me. Sure, yes, I'm referring to Dermatologists but there are some non-MD types who I've found give out pretty thorough advice too. One such person is a blogger I've visited time and again (going on 4 to 5 years) for good, no-nonsense advice on skincare and skin conditions named Caroline formerly of Beauty Mouth (now just Caroline Hirons).

She does a regular clinic where you can ask a question and she'll answer it. Sounds simple, but you'd be surprised at how hard it is to find good, correct information on your skin and skincare on the internet or even from your Derm. I wandered over to her site yesterday and it reminded me what a good idea it is (entirely relying on, of course, who is doling out the advice... in this case, someone who has been in beauty a long time).

For those in the US, many of the products she talks about are sadly unavailable here but the advice is always good, above and beyond the product recs. It's worth trawling through the old clinics as well or the Cheat Sheets (sidebar, scroll down) too for info and advice.

She (skincare) and Lisa Eldridge (makeup) might be the two folks in the beauty blogosphere/vlogosphere I go to most to glean a bit of beauty intel. And Face Goop, Sali Hughes among others...

The first time I visited India I was, in a word, shocked. It wasn't my finest hour as a world traveler... I would shrink away from the roving street kids as they tugged on the hem of my shirt, avoid eye contact with the taxi driver asking me prying personal questions -- was he hitting on me the moment my husband jumped out of the cab to use an ATM or just curious about his exotic fare?

This time, I'm ready for it and rather excited. It's incomparable to any American or European city. People liken Mumbai to NYC but, in fact, there's not a place in Manhattan where you'll turn a corner and run head-long into a cow or a man pulling a cart down a dirt road.

India can cause snap judgments in and knee-jerk reactions from visitors for sure, but for others it slowly reveals itself. It took two long-ish trips for me to decide that I really enjoyed India and how different yet similar things could be. I could shop at globally recognized brand boutiques in the most luxurious air-conditioned malls and be drinking chai for pennies from a dented pot balanced on a burner in the street minutes later, tended to by a rail-thin chai walla. I'm stared at incessantly but in a way that's less leering and rapacious, as you get with men in the US, and more innocuous curiosity. I look as exotic to folks there as they do to me. I can't just pick up bits of the language but it's a welcome challenge to try. Yes means everything in India, most often no. And there is nothing on this planet as refreshing as sipping a salty lime soda on the shaded veranda of the Mumbai Cricket Club on a hot summer afternoon.

It's messy and full of life, everywhere, around every corner at all hours of the day and night. In a phrase, it's beautifully chaotic. An entrepreneurial vitality is informed by history and fueled by rapid change everywhere, slicing through social strata or any sense of time, which, as it turns out is its own thing in India anyway.

That's all to say I'm looking forward to it, even if I do have to wear a lime green sari that clashes horribly with my pale skin, making me look like I'm about to be sick everywhere, and not a hair dresser in town will be able to do anything useful with my fine, thin northern European hair in the humid Bombay air. I'll be attending my first Parsee wedding, will get to wander the halls of the Royal Bombay Yacht Club, sip cocktails at Tote on Turf and generally do things that feel far fancier than I can handle back in my real life.

How freaking cool is this? My amazing friend and brilliant illustrator Carol Chu has created The Fashion Coloring Book. Buy it now. You know you want to. It's the most fun you'll ever have with fashion and, unlike real fashion, it won't make you feel fat.

Whether she is searching for her dream job or a new city to call home;is saving up for a down payment or a trip to Europe;is learning to cook or speak another language,she wants a little guidance. She wants to be inspired.

What do you think of the group of derisive comments about young Miss Upton's boobs on the cover of SI this month? I don't usually pay attention to *news* on breasts (really, guys) but the jeering at her "flapjacks", as one particularly troll-y commentator coined her ample and natural-looking bosom, had me thinking about real boobs and why they get such a bad wrap for being flat or floppy or saggy or whatever. (I'll leave it to the others to comment about her relatablity, if her boobs are/are not fake or whatever and the other angles of this over-exposed story.)

I mean, it's just a matter of physics that large pockets of fat that hang suspended from one's chest will eventually end up headed south just like the rest of our physique will without surgical intervention.

Have you seen a set of MOOBS (and boy are they on the rise) with nipples pointing skywards? Me neither.

Interestingly, as the media drums up a tempest in a tea cup around Upton's breasts, I happened upon some images of Marilyn Monroe disrobed more than usual in a magazine (they're from a new book of her photos).

Lo and behold, she has refreshingly natural breasts that do that flatten-and-spread thing that sizeable boobs do.

Do you think she would have had implants had she been around today? Yes, a totally frivolous speculation, I know, but I do wonder if she would have bowed to the pressure to be even more perfect and have even more surgery than she already did.

You have to wonder if the only boobs the men commenting have seen are gravity defying fake ones if they are so repulsed at Upton's. Let's also take a minute to acknowledge the context of objectification in which the contemptuous proclamations about this young woman's boobs are happening too. It's like a cattle market where all the cows had bulbous, swingy utter implants until now and the buyers can't handle the fleshy, dangly nature of the natural ones.

I fret for younger people and the plastic, pornographied lens through which so many of them exclusively view of the world and women. Their ideas of what boobs should look like is pretty unsettling and probably telling of what they think a woman's other parts should look like. I don't wonder that some young men might pass out from the sight of a real vulva with actual pubic hair on it.

Anyway, the real question I have about Upton's cover is how they convinced her that the microscopic piece of fruit leather covering her mons pubis.

They surely had to Photoshop out some of her anatomy for that... like, say, her labia. Entirely.

So, the take away:

Boobs. Sometimes they're real. Sometimes they're not. Gravity affects them too, even those not featured on National Geographic. Boys, get over it. You might think boobs are there solely for your viewing pleasure, and magazines like SI do their best to affirm that sense of entitlement for you, but they're not. And I'm pretty sure Kate Upton isn't crying herself to sleep on her private jet over your opinion about how hers look.

Don't you just love beautiful macro shots of urban landscapes? Here's a little more NYC love after my recent hop over for a few days. These are shot by photographer Andrew Carter Mace. I would love a giant print of one of these at like 120" wide to hang above my huge dining room table.

New York Fashion Week is a big old corporate production. It's slick and shiny and expertly packaged. London Fashion Week is a different kettle of fish. There's more indie goodness, it's a bit more interesting and individual. All four fashion weeks are great to get an idea of what sort of cosmetics we'll probably be wearing in the next 9 months.

But I like LFW for the coolest beauty inspiration... apparently this fall we'll be back to burgundy lipstick (thank goodness I still have my Revlon in Black Cherry) and in poufy hair with headbands.